Skywalker

Master List

Dinner at the Skywalker table is rarely quiet.

Tonight is no exception.

Which somehow makes the tension worse.

Because everyone is trying a little too hard to make it feel ordinary.

Padmé Amidala is serving food.

Anakin Skywalker is pretending not to watch Luke every five seconds.

Leia Organa is pretending not to notice Anakin watching Luke every five seconds.

Han Solo is trying to determine what percentage of this family’s communication is verbal.

So far his estimate is low.

Very low.

Han breaks first.

Because of course he does.

He gestures vaguely with his fork.

“Okay, I have a question.”

Leia sighs immediately.

“That statement never ends well.”

Han ignores her.

He points at Luke.

“So.”

Beat.

“Why does he get sent to swamp camp?”

Silence.

Luke chokes on water.

Leia closes her eyes.

Padmé presses her lips together.

Anakin stares.

Han frowns.

“What?”

Han gestures again.

“I’m serious.”

To Luke:

“No offense.”

Pause.

“Some offense.”

Luke narrows his eyes.

“Thanks.”

Han leans back.

“I’m just saying—if I was training someone, I wouldn’t send them to a swamp.”

Beat.

“I’d send them somewhere useful.”

Luke deadpans:

“Like where?”

Han shrugs.

“I don’t know. Somewhere with oxygen.”

That gets a laugh.

A real one.

Small, but real.

Even Anakin smiles.

Barely.

Han notices.

Good.

Tension cracked.

Then he asks the dangerous question.

Because Han doesn’t know which questions are dangerous yet.

“So what actually happens there?”

Silence again.

Different this time.

Heavier.

Luke looks down at his plate.

Anakin’s smile disappears.

Leia’s shoulders stiffen.

Padmé answers first.

Carefully.

“Training.”

Han nods.

“Yeah, I got that part.”

Pause.

“I meant why does everyone look like someone died?”

No one answers.

Luke stares at his food.

Then mutters—

“Because everyone thinks I’m about to.”

The room freezes.

Han’s expression changes immediately.

No joke now.

Padmé’s voice is soft.

“Luke—”

But Luke keeps going.

Not angry.

Not loud.

Just honest in the way he rarely lets himself be.

“I know what everyone says.”

He shrugs.

Too casual.

Never a good sign.

“Dagobah is where Masters go when their Padawans are… difficult.”

Han glances at Leia.

She gives the tiniest shake of her head.

Don’t interrupt.

Luke continues.

“They say it’s about discipline.”

Beat.

“Balance.”

Another beat.

“Control.”

His jaw tightens.

Then—

“They say it’s to make sure I don’t become him.”

Silence.

Heavy.

Immediate.

Han doesn’t need clarification.

He still feels it.

Even without full history.

Luke finally looks at Anakin.

And there it is.

The real fear.

“What if they’re right?”

No one moves.

Anakin sets down his fork.

Slowly.

Very deliberately.

He looks at Luke.

Not as a Master.

Not as a Jedi.

Only as his father.

Then he says something that startles everyone.

Including Leia.

Including Padmé.

Including himself.

“They are.”

Silence.

Luke goes still.

Han’s eyes widen slightly.

Leia turns sharply toward Anakin.

Padmé doesn’t move.

She knows him too well.

Wait.

Anakin continues.

Quietly.

“They are right to worry.”

Luke’s expression cracks.

Just a little.

Anakin leans forward.

“Because you are like me.”

Beat.

“More than you know.”

Luke swallows.

Hard.

Anakin’s voice stays calm.

Steady.

Too steady.

“You feel everything too fast.”

“You move before you think.”

“You care so much it becomes reckless.”

Luke can’t look away.

Anakin’s expression softens.

Not much.

Just enough.

“And that is exactly why they’re wrong.”

Silence.

Luke blinks.

“What?”

Anakin’s voice drops.

Gentler now.

“Because you’re also not me.”

Beat.

“You stop.”

Another beat.

“You question yourself.”

His eyes hold Luke’s.

“I didn’t.”

That lands on the whole room.

Not just Luke.

Everyone.

Even Han goes still.

Because this suddenly feels sacred.

Private.

Something he wasn’t supposed to see.

Anakin continues.

“You worry about becoming me.”

A breath.

“I worry about you thinking that’s all you’re allowed to become.”

Luke’s eyes shine.

Just slightly.

Then, from beside him—

Leia speaks.

Calm.

Certain.

Like truth.

“You’re not Dad.”

Luke glances at her.

Leia shrugs.

Like this is obvious.

“You’re you.”

Beat.

“And frankly, you’re way more dramatic.”

Luke stares.

Then laughs.

A broken laugh.

Wet around the edges.

Han immediately points.

“There he is.”

Leia groans.

“Han.”

Han ignores her.

“To be fair,” Han says, “I’ve only known you like five dinners…”

He points at Luke.

“…but I’m pretty sure nobody else in this family has thrown themselves onto the floor to win an argument.”

Luke sputters.

Leia mutters:

“That happened once.”

Han deadpans:

“It was memorable.”

And suddenly—

the tension breaks.

Not completely.

But enough.

Enough to breathe.

Enough to eat.

Enough to survive the last dinner before tomorrow.

Later, years later, Han would think back on that dinner and realize something.

He came there thinking Luke’s biggest fear was failure.

He left understanding the truth.

It wasn’t failure.

It was inheritance.

It was becoming someone else.

And somehow—

everyone at that table spent the whole night trying to tell Luke the same thing:

He was never meant to become Anakin.

THE COUNCIL ROOM

Luke stands very still.

He doesn’t like standing still.

But today, no one has told him to move.

That feels worse.

Around him, the Council speaks in calm voices that are meant to sound neutral—but aren’t.

They never really are.

Luke hears words like:

“balance”

“structure”

“oversight”

“training adjustment”

But what he really hears is:

something is being decided about him

He shifts his weight slightly.

He can feel it in his hands.

Like they want to move.

Like they always do.

Anakin stands beside him.

Not behind him.

Not in front of him.

Just there.

Which somehow feels heavier than either option.

Luke looks up at him once.

Anakin doesn’t look back.

Not immediately.

That’s the first thing Luke notices.

Finally, the decision comes.

Not dramatic.

Worse than dramatic.

Simple.

Dagobah.

A temporary transfer.

A test of discipline.

A correction of balance.

A second layer of oversight.

Luke doesn’t fully understand it.

But he understands enough.

He is being moved.

He looks at Anakin again.

This time Anakin is already looking at him.

And Luke realizes something strange:

Anakin is not surprised.

That’s when it starts to feel real.

🌌 THAT NIGHT — ANAKIN’S WORKSHOP

The room is quieter than usual.

Machines are off.

Tools are still.

Even the hum of the workshop feels like it is holding its breath.

Luke stands near the doorway.

He hasn’t sat down.

He doesn’t know why.

Anakin doesn’t look at him at first.

He’s tightening something unnecessarily.

Fixing something that isn’t broken.

That’s how Luke knows he’s thinking too hard.

Finally:

“It won’t be easy.”

Luke nods quickly.

Like he already knows that part.

Like he’s been waiting for the rest.

Anakin continues, quieter:

“Dagobah isn’t… structured.”

Pause.

“You’re used to structure.”

Luke shifts slightly.

That’s true.

He doesn’t like it—but it’s true.

Anakin finally looks at him.

And there it is.

Not Jedi Master.

Not Council voice.

Just father.

Just fear disguised as instruction.

“You’re… resistant,” Anakin says carefully.

Luke frowns.

“Resistant?”

Anakin exhales through his nose like he regrets the word already.

“You push back. On everything. Even when it’s good for you.”

Luke opens his mouth—

then closes it.

Because he doesn’t actually know how to argue that.

A pause.

Longer this time.

Anakin steps closer.

Not threatening.

Not strict.

Just tired in a way Luke hasn’t seen often.

“Listen to me,” Anakin says more softly.

Luke does.

“Dagobah will feel wrong sometimes.”

Luke nods again.

Anakin continues:

“That doesn’t mean it is wrong.”

Another pause.

Then, quieter:

“And it doesn’t mean you are.”

That lands differently.

Luke doesn’t answer immediately.

Because that is the first time tonight something has not felt like a decision being made about him.

But instead—

something being said to him.

Luke finally asks, small:

“Am I in trouble?”

Anakin almost laughs.

Almost.

“No,” he says.

Then corrects himself:

“Not like that.”

He hesitates.

Then adds:

“This is… to make sure you don’t become something you didn’t choose.”

Luke doesn’t fully understand that sentence.

But he feels it anyway.

A beat.

Then Luke says:

“Will I still be your Padawan?”

That question comes out faster than the others.

Like it matters more than he meant it to.

Anakin pauses for a long moment.

Then:

“Yes.”

Immediate.

Certain.

Then softer:

“Always.”

Luke nods.

But something in his chest still feels too tight.

Anakin places a hand on his shoulder.

Not pushing.

Not guiding.

Just there.

“You’re going to do fine,” Anakin says.

Luke almost believes him.

Almost.

Then Anakin adds, like it’s a warning he doesn’t want to say out loud:

“But you’re going to hate parts of it.”

Luke frowns.

“Why would I hate it?”

Anakin’s mouth twitches slightly.

Like he knows exactly why.

Like he remembers.

“Because it won’t feel like you,” he says.

Pause.

“And you’re going to think that means something is wrong.”

Luke doesn’t respond.

Because that… actually sounds familiar.

Even now.

Even here.

Anakin squeezes his shoulder once.

Then lets go.

“Get some rest,” he says finally.

Luke nods.

Starts to leave.

At the doorway, he stops.

Turns slightly.

“Dad?”

Anakin looks up.

Luke hesitates.

Then:

“What if I don’t like who I become there?”

Silence.

Anakin doesn’t answer immediately.

And when he does, it’s not perfect.

It’s not wise.

It’s not Jedi.

It’s just honest.

“Then we fix it,” he says.

Beat.

“Together.”

Luke nods.

This time slower.

Like that answer actually stays.

He leaves.

And Anakin stands alone in the workshop longer than necessary.

Because he understands something Luke doesn’t yet:

Dagobah isn’t just training.

It’s a mirror.

Han leans back.

“You know, I think that meeting went well.”

Leia doesn’t look up.

“It did.”

Han nods like he agrees with himself.

“I feel like we should celebrate.”

Leia finally glances over.

“We are en route to Naboo. That is not a celebration. That is logistics.”

Han:

“Same thing, depends on your personality.”

Leia returns to her datapad.

Han waits exactly three seconds before speaking again.

“Well…”

He drags it out.

Leia already suspicious.

“Well what.”

Han, casual:

“Maybe next time you can start a motion to be my girlfriend.”

Silence.

Not immediate outrage.

Worse.

Processing silence.

Leia slowly looks up.

“A motion.”

Han shrugs.

“Yeah. You like those. You pass things. Approve things. Seemed like your style.”

Leia:

“That is not how—”

She stops.

Because she realizes what he is doing.

Han is smiling slightly.

Not fully joking now.

But still pretending he is.

Leia narrows her eyes.

“You are comparing a relationship to legislative procedure.”

Han:

“I’m saying I’d support it.”

Leia exhales through her nose.

“You are impossible.”

Han:

“You say that like it’s new information.”

A beat.

Then Han adds lightly:

“So is that a yes or are we sending it to committee?”

Leia opens her mouth—

then closes it again.

Because she almost smiles.

Almost.

And that’s the shift.

Han notices.

He always notices.

His voice changes slightly.

Still casual—but softer underneath.

“Hey.”

Leia looks at him again.

Han is no longer joking.

Not really.

“I’m serious.”

That lands differently.

Leia’s posture changes subtly—less defensive, more still.

Han continues:

“I don’t know what the formal version of this is supposed to be in your world.”

He gestures vaguely toward the ship, the galaxy, everything she carries.

“But I like you. A lot.”

Pause.

“And I’m not really trying to make it complicated.”

Leia doesn’t speak immediately.

Which for her is loud.

Han scratches the back of his neck.

Now slightly less confident.

“So… yeah. That’s my proposal. Bad wording included.”

Silence again.

This time heavier.

Leia finally speaks, carefully:

“That was not a motion.”

Han:

“No?”

Leia:

“That was a declaration.”

Han:

“That sounds more dramatic than I meant it to be.”

Leia:

“It is also more accurate.”

Another pause.

Han waits.

This time, he doesn’t fill it with jokes.

Leia looks at him properly now.

Not scanning.

Not analyzing.

Just looking.

Then, quietly:

“You are very confident for someone who is currently waiting for a response.”

Han:

“Confidence is a coping mechanism.”

That gets it.

A small exhale from her—almost a laugh.

Almost.

Leia leans back slightly.

“This is inefficient.”

Han:

“Yeah.”

A beat.

Leia again:

“And unregulated.”

Han:

“Very.”

She studies him for a moment longer.

Then, finally:

“Fine.”

Han blinks.

“Fine?”

Leia:

“Yes.”

Han:

“That’s your official answer?”

Leia:

“Do you require formal documentation?”

Han immediately:

“Yes.”

Leia:

“Then yes.”

Silence.

Then Han just sits there like:

“…I just won a war and I don’t know how.”

Leia adds, completely composed:

“Do not make it worse by celebrating.”

Han, instantly:

“No promises.”

And Leia—just barely—lets the corner of her mouth lift.

Because she understands something in that moment:

He didn’t ask like politics.

He asked like himself.

Leia waited until dinner was over.

That alone was enough to make Anakin suspicious.

Normally if Leia had something to say, she said it immediately.

Tonight she was quiet.

Too quiet.

---

Padmé noticed first.

Of course she did.

She already knew.

Leia had told her weeks ago.

But she hadn't told the others yet.

---

Luke was helping himself to a second dessert when Leia finally spoke.

"Dad?"

Anakin looked up.

"Yeah?"

---

Leia folded her hands together.

Not nervous.

Just deliberate.

---

"I need to tell you something."

---

Across the table Luke immediately perked up.

This sounded important.

---

Anakin set down his cup.

"What is it?"

---

Leia took a breath.

Then said it simply.

---

"I don't want to continue Jedi training."

---

Silence.

---

Luke stopped moving.

The spoon froze halfway to his mouth.

---

Anakin blinked.

Once.

---

"What?"

---

Leia held his gaze.

"I don't want to continue training."

---

Luke looked between them.

Waiting for the joke.

---

It didn't come.

---

Anakin leaned back slightly.

"Are you having problems with your Master?"

---

"No."

---

"The Council?"

---

"No."

---

"Luke?"

---

Luke immediately pointed at himself.

"What did I do?"

---

"Nothing."

---

Leia's voice remained calm.

Steady.

Like she'd practiced this.

---

"I just don't want that life."

---

The room became very quiet.

---

Luke stared at her.

---

"But..." he started.

Then stopped.

---

Because the words didn't make sense.

---

Leia loved the Force.

She was good at training.

She could outthink half the older Padawans.

---

"Why?"

Luke finally asked.

---

Leia looked at her brother.

And for the first time there was something vulnerable beneath the certainty.

---

"Because it's your dream."

---

Luke frowned.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

---

"Everything."

---

A pause.

---

"I kept waiting to love it the way you do."

---

Luke didn't know what to say to that.

---

Because he did love it.

Everything about it.

---

The Force.

The training.

The missions.

The responsibility.

---

He couldn't imagine wanting something else.

---

Leia smiled sadly.

Seeing the confusion on his face.

---

"I know."

---

Then she looked back at Anakin.

---

"I don't hate it."

---

Her voice softened.

---

"I just don't think it's who I am."

---

Anakin was still silent.

Which was honestly worse than arguing.

---

Luke glanced between them nervously.

---

"You're still going to use the Force though, right?"

---

Leia laughed softly.

---

"Luke."

---

"What?"

---

"You don't stop being Force-sensitive."

---

"Oh."

---

"That's not how that works."

---

"Right."

---

Another silence.

---

Then Anakin finally spoke.

---

"What do you want to do instead?"

---

Leia straightened slightly.

And suddenly there was certainty.

Real certainty.

The kind she never had when discussing Jedi training.

---

"I want to work in the Republic."

---

Luke blinked.

---

"The Republic?"

---

Leia nodded.

---

"I want to help shape policy."

---

Luke looked horrified.

---

"Voluntarily?"

---

Padmé nearly laughed.

---

Leia ignored him.

---

"I want to understand how things work."

---

She looked toward her mother.

---

"Not from the Jedi side."

---

Then back at Anakin.

---

"From the Republic side."

---

Anakin stared at her.

---

And suddenly it hit him.

---

This wasn't Leia walking away from something.

---

She was walking toward something.

---

The exact same way Luke was.

---

Just in a different direction.

---

And somehow that made it harder.

---

Because there was nothing to fix.

Nothing to teach.

Nothing to correct.

---

His little girl had already decided.

---

Luke looked down at his dessert.

Then back at Leia.

---

"So we're not going to be Knights together?"

---

There it was.

The thing nobody had said.

---

The thing that hurt.

---

For the first time that evening Leia looked uncertain.

---

"Aren't we still going to be us?"

---

Luke didn't answer immediately.

---

Then finally:

"Yeah."

---

A pause.

---

"Just differently."

---

Leia nodded.

---

"Just differently."

---

And for a moment nobody spoke.

---

Then Anakin stood up.

Walked around the table.

And put a hand on Leia's shoulder.

---

She looked up at him.

Trying not to show how much his answer mattered.

---

Anakin smiled.

Small.

Proud.

A little sad.

---

"You know," he said quietly, "when you were six, I thought you'd become a Jedi Master before either of us."

---

Leia laughed.

---

"Really?"

---

"Absolutely."

---

Luke groaned.

"That's not fair."

---

"But," Anakin continued, "being a Jedi isn't the only way to serve people."

---

Leia's eyes widened slightly.

---

Because she hadn't been sure he would understand.

---

Not completely.

Not right away.

---

But he did.

---

Or at least he was trying to.

---

And for now?

That was enough.

---

Across the table Padmé reached for Leia's hand.

Pride shining plainly on her face.

---

Because for the first time in a long time—

Leia wasn't choosing between being a Skywalker and being herself.

The dinner table was quiet in the way it only ever was before Obi-Wan spoke.

A rare moment of peace.

Padmé Amidala was halfway through setting a dish down, already mentally preparing for the next day’s schedule.

Anakin Skywalker looked suspiciously relaxed—an immediate red flag, but no one had identified it yet.

Luke Skywalker was talking mid-bite about something that involved running, climbing, and “a really good idea if you think about it.”

Leia Organa was sitting perfectly upright, already finished eating, quietly observing everyone like she was auditing the room.

Then Obi-Wan spoke.

“That reminds me of when Anakin almost had Galactic authorities question my custody status.”

The table stopped.

Not gradually.

Instantly.

Anakin’s fork paused mid-air.

Luke blinked.

Leia tilted her head slightly.

Padmé slowly set the dish down like she was bracing for impact.

Luke was first.

“Your what?”

Leia, immediately:

“Custody status?”

Anakin, without looking up:

“Don’t.”

Obi-Wan, calmly:

“It was a misunderstanding.”

Luke leaned forward.

“What kind of misunderstanding gets custody involved?”

Obi-Wan took a bite of food like this was normal conversation.

“Anakin told several individuals I had kidnapped him.”

Silence.

Then Luke:

“You did what?”

Anakin:

“I did not.”

Obi-Wan:

“You did.”

Anakin:

“I said you were being dramatic.”

Obi-Wan:

“And then you escalated.”

Leia’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Strategically?”

Anakin:

“No.”

Obi-Wan:

“Yes.”

Padmé exhaled slowly.

“Please continue.”

That was never a good sign.

Obi-Wan continued, unbothered:

Teenage Anakin—about thirteen—had been:

upset about being corrected

told to calm down

told he was being dramatic

Which, according to Obi-Wan, was the exact moment “all rational discussion ended.”

Anakin interrupted immediately:

“I was correcting misinformation.”

Obi-Wan didn’t even look at him.

“You were loudly correcting misinformation to strangers.”

Luke looked fascinated.

“Wait—strangers?”

Leia, already analyzing:

“Public escalation.”

Anakin:

“It was not public escalation.”

Obi-Wan:

“It was in fact entirely public.”

Obi-Wan continued.

At some point, Anakin had decided that the most effective way to resolve feeling misunderstood was to inform nearby individuals that:

he was being taken against his will by a man he did not know

Luke’s eyes widened.

“That is insane.”

Anakin:

“It was not that simple.”

Obi-Wan:

“It was exactly that simple.”

Padmé pressed her fingers to her temple slightly.

“And what happened.”

Obi-Wan paused like he was recalling a mildly inconvenient weather event.

“Someone believed him briefly.”

Silence.

Luke:

“No way.”

Leia:

“That is statistically predictable.”

Anakin:

“It was not predictable.”

Obi-Wan:

“It was extremely predictable.”

Luke now looked personally inspired.

“So you can just say that and people listen?”

Anakin:

“NO.”

Leia, thoughtfully:

“Only if the context supports plausibility.”

Anakin:

“LEIA.”

Padmé finally spoke, very carefully:

“So to clarify… you were almost arrested because you argued.”

Obi-Wan corrected gently:

“Because Anakin argued loudly.”

Anakin:

“I was thirteen.”

Obi-Wan:

“Yes.”

A long silence fell over the table.

The kind where everyone was recalculating their understanding of reality.

Luke leaned back slightly, impressed.

“That’s kind of impressive though.”

Anakin:

“No it is not.”

Leia, still thinking:

“It is effective in certain circumstances.”

Anakin:

“NO IT IS NOT.”

Padmé looked between all of them.

Then said, very calmly:

At first, it was just a fragment.

A sound without shape.

A memory that refused to stay still.

Anakin heard it the first time the twins were born—not clearly, not fully, just something at the edge of thought. A rhythm. A cadence. A voice that didn’t belong in the present but refused to stay in the past.

It unsettled him more than he expected.

Because he knew it.

Or thought he did.

---

Later, he searched for it.

Quietly.

Carefully.

Not telling anyone—not even Padmé Amidala—because he wasn’t even sure what he was looking for.

Just a song.

A lullaby.

Something his mother used to sing in Huttese when he was small on Tatooine.

But memory is unreliable when it has been buried under war, grief, and time.

So the archives gave him nothing.

No recordings.

No translations.

No written trace of anything that felt right.

Only fragments of Huttese phrases that looked close but sounded wrong when he tried them under his breath.

Eventually, he stopped searching.

Not because he gave up—

but because he was afraid he was losing something that had mattered more than he realized.

---

The nursery is quiet tonight.

Too quiet in the way only sleeping children can make a room feel—like the world is holding itself still so nothing breaks.

Anakin stands near the cradle.

One of the twins shifts slightly in sleep.

The other makes a soft sound, then settles again.

He doesn’t move.

He just watches them.

And something in him loosens.

Not intentionally.

Just enough for memory to slip through the cracks.

---

It starts wrong at first.

A broken sound in his throat.

A half-formed rhythm.

He almost stops immediately.

But the nursery doesn’t judge him.

The room doesn’t demand perfection.

So he tries again.

Slower this time.

Listening more than remembering.

Letting instinct fill the gaps where certainty fails.

A phrase emerges.

Then another.

Not complete.

Not correct.

But familiar enough to hurt.

---

And then—

something shifts.

Like a door finally finding its frame.

The words come back not as they were stored in him…

but as they were felt.

Soft.

Simple.

Huttese, but gentled by memory and time.

The lullaby Shmi used to hum when he couldn’t sleep.

When the heat of Tatooine pressed too hard against the night.

When she would sit beside him and make the world feel smaller in the safest way.

---

Anakin exhales without realizing he’s been holding his breath.

His voice steadies.

Not stronger.

Just clearer.

The song isn’t perfect.

It isn’t complete.

But it exists now.

Fully.

For the first time since childhood, it is no longer something lost.

---

One of the twins stirs.

Not waking.

Just responding.

To sound.

To presence.

To something soft enough to cross sleep without breaking it.

Anakin doesn’t stop.

He keeps going anyway.

Because he understands, suddenly and simply, that this is what the song was always meant for.

Not survival.

Not memory.

But comfort.

---

When he finishes, the nursery is still.

The twins are asleep again.

And Anakin realizes something that sits quietly in his chest:

He didn’t just remember Shmi.

He brought her forward.

Not into war.

Not into grief.

But into this room.

Into this life.

Into something that doesn’t hurt to hold.

And for the first time, he lets himself believe that maybe memory doesn’t have to be a wound.

The morning starts with Padmé’s voice before Leia is even fully awake.

“You’re going to look beautiful today,” she says, like it’s already decided.

Leia sits up slowly, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. “Today?”

Padmé is already moving around the room with quiet energy, the kind she only gets when something matters to her personally. “The ceremony. You know the one we talked about.”

“I remember,” Leia says carefully.

Padmé smiles like she’s been holding this thought in for days. “You’re going to wear something like I used to. Not exactly the same, of course—it should be yours—but…” she pauses, eyes bright, “something in that tradition.”

Leia doesn’t answer right away.

Because she understands what this means to her mother.

It’s not just an outfit.

It’s history.

It’s pride.

It’s connection.

So she nods.

“Okay,” she says.

And Padmé’s face softens immediately, like that was the answer she was hoping for all along.

---

Later, Leia stands in front of the mirror.

The dress is already on.

Soft, elegant fabric. Structured but flowing. Carefully chosen color that makes her skin glow under the morning light.

It is beautiful.

She can see that.

But she is also very aware of how not her it feels yet.

Behind her, Padmé is working on her hair.

“Hold still,” she murmurs gently.

Leia sighs. “I am still.”

“You’re thinking too loudly.”

“I don’t think loudly.”

Padmé smiles slightly. “You absolutely do.”

Leia doesn’t argue after that.

Because Padmé has already started sectioning her hair, pulling it up with practiced hands, shaping it into something intricate and deliberate.

An elegant Naboo style.

Something Leia recognizes from old images of her mother when she was younger—formal, composed, almost ceremonial.

It feels heavier than Leia is used to.

Not physically.

Emotionally.

---

“Do I have to wear it like this?” Leia asks quietly.

Padmé pauses for just a second. “No,” she says honestly. “But I think it would suit the occasion.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Padmé looks at her through the mirror.

And her expression softens again.

“I know,” she says. “You don’t have to be me.”

Leia watches her mother’s hands return to her hair.

“I just… want you to understand what this moment means,” Padmé adds gently. “It’s important.”

Leia looks down at her hands.

She thinks about the ceremony.

About the people who will be there.

About what she is expected to represent.

And then she nods again.

“Okay,” she says. “Finish it.”

Padmé exhales softly, almost relieved, and continues.

---

When it’s done, Leia looks different.

Not like someone else.

But like a version of herself she hasn’t grown into yet.

Padmé steps back, clearly proud.

“You look like a senator,” she says softly.

Leia’s eyes flick to the mirror again.

She studies her reflection for a long moment.

Then she says, very quietly:

“I look like you.”

Padmé pauses.

For a moment, she looks like she might say something else—something reassuring, something proud, something certain.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, she just smiles.

“Yes,” she says gently. “A little.”

Leia nods again.

But this time, her expression is more thoughtful than excited.

And as they leave the room together, she understands something she can’t quite put into words yet:

She can love this.

She can respect this.

She can even wear it.

But it still isn’t quite hers.

Not yet.

Got you—this is the moment where the outfit stops being just “beautiful” and becomes an identity shift for her.

Here’s the continuation woven into your scene:

When the doors open, the room changes before Leia even steps fully inside.

It’s not fear exactly.

It’s attention.

The kind that lands on her instantly and stays there.

Leia keeps her posture straight anyway.

Beside her, Padmé gives her a small, reassuring nod.

“Just breathe,” she murmurs.

Leia does.

And walks in.

---

The ceremony is everything it’s supposed to be—polished, formal, careful in the way important things always are. People speak to her like she is older than she feels. Like she already belongs in a future she hasn’t chosen yet.

And the whole time, she can feel the weight of the dress.

Not because it’s heavy.

Because it means something.

Every detail she once thought was just beautiful now feels like language.

Like someone is trying to speak for her through fabric.

And part of her understands why her mother loves this.

Why Padmé built herself through elegance and symbolism and presence.

Because it works.

People listen.

People see.

But Leia also realizes something else, slowly, as the ceremony goes on.

They aren’t just looking at her.

They are looking at what she represents.

And she isn’t sure she wants to be only that.

---

When it ends, there’s applause.

There are speeches.

There are smiles she is expected to return.

She does all of it correctly.

Perfectly, even.

Padmé watches her with quiet pride from the side of the room.

Anakin looks relieved, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time without realizing it.

And Leia… Leia is already thinking about the door.

---

The moment she is allowed to leave, she does.

Not abruptly.

Not disrespectfully.

Just quickly enough that no one mistakes it for lingering.

The hallway outside is quieter.

Cooler.

Less heavy.

Leia stops walking only when she is far enough away that the noise of the room fades completely behind her.

And then she exhales.

Long.

Slow.

Like she has been holding something in her chest for hours.

---

She looks down at herself.

At the dress.

At the careful hair.

At the reflection of Padmé she keeps catching in the edges of her mind.

And something shifts.

Not rejection.

Clarity.

---

Because she understands now what it is.

It isn’t just a dress.

It’s a path.

A version of her life that already exists in someone else’s shape.

And she doesn’t want to live inside it.

---

“I don’t want to be this,” she whispers to herself.

The words surprise her a little.

Not because they’re untrue.

Because they’re the first time she’s allowed them to exist.

---

She thinks about Padmé.

About how excited she was.

About how carefully she shaped Leia for this moment—not to control her, but to honor her.

And Leia loves her for that.

She really does.

But love doesn’t erase truth.

---

Leia turns slightly, looking back toward the room.

The world she just stepped out of.

The world people are expecting her to grow into.

And she realizes something even clearer now.

---

She doesn’t want to be a copy of Padmé.

She doesn’t want to stand behind anyone else’s legacy.

She doesn’t want to wear someone else’s history and call it her future.

---

She wants something else.

Not comfort.

Not tradition.

Not image.

---

She wants purpose.

She wants to fight for something real.

Something she chooses.

Something that is hers.

---

From behind her, footsteps echo softly.

Padmé’s voice follows a moment later, gentle and careful.

“Leia?”

Leia turns slowly.

Her expression is still composed.

But different now.

Changed in a way that isn’t visible yet—but is already permanent.

“I’m okay,” Leia says first, because she knows her mother will worry.

Then she pauses.

And adds, more honestly:

“I just… don’t think I want to do it like this.”

Padmé studies her for a long moment.

Not startled.

Not upset.

Just listening.

And finally, she nods.

Very slightly.

“I know,” she says softly.

A beat.

“And I think that’s alright.”

Leia looks at her, surprised.

Padmé steps closer, adjusting nothing, fixing nothing—just seeing her.

“You don’t have to become me,” she says. “That was never the point.”

Leia swallows.

Because she believes her.

But she also understands something else now.

---

She isn’t stepping away from Padmé.

She’s stepping toward herself.